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The next moment it was gone and Desmond's attention was once more claimed by the progress of the conference. "Do I understand that you refuse to serve under me any longer?" Mortimer was saying to Behrend, who had risen from the settee and stood facing him. "As long as you continue to behave as you are doing at present," replied the other, "you may understand that!"
Desmond was immediately struck by the contrast she presented to the others, Mortimer with his goggle eyes and untidy hair, Max, gross and bestial, Behrend, Oriental and shifty, and the scarecrow figure of the tall man. Despite her age, which must have been nearly sixty, she still retained traces of beauty.
Then, running his thumb-nail swiftly along the edge of the box, he broke the paper wrapping, the box burst open and a shower of cigarettes fell to the ground. "So that's your Star of Poland, is it?" cried Behrend in a mocking voice. "Wot 'ave yer done wiv' the sparklers, eh?" demanded Max, catching Mortimer roughly by the arm.
"You will take your orders from me as before," he said quietly. Behrend adjusted his pince-nez. "No. 13 is perfectly right," he remarked, "he knows his territory, and he should be allowed to work there." "You, too," Mortimer observed in the same calm tone as before, "will take your orders from me!" With a quick gesture the young man dashed his long black hair out of his eyes.
But Mortimer stood, aimlessly shaking the empty box in front of him, as though to convince himself that the gem was not there. Behrend fell on his knees and raked the pile of cigarettes over and over with his fingers. "Nothing there!" he shouted angrily, springing to his feet. "It's all bluff! He's bluffing to the end! See, he doesn't even attempt to find his famous jewel!
But my first idea was to summon aid. I tried to telephone without success and then we found the wire cut outside. Then I had the idea of pumping Behrend. I found him quite chatty and furious against Mortimer, whom he accused of having sold them. He told us that the party would be sure to make for the Dyke Inn, as Nur-el-Din was there.
There are two of them! No, no, it can't be!" And she sank half fainting on the sofa. Behrend whipped out a pistol from his hip pocket and thrust it in Mortimer's face. "Is this another of your infernal surprise packets?" he demanded fiercely. All the spies seemed on a sudden to be armed, Desmond noted, all, that is, save Mrs. Malplaquet who lay cowering on the settee.
We used to say: "Now then, Florence, go on tell us Fraulein's love-story!" and she would clear her throat, and cough, and say "It was a glorious summer afternoon in the little village of Eisenach, and the sunshine peering down through the leaves turned to gold the tresses of young Elsa Behrend as she sat knitting under the trees."
Max and Behrend, he could see, were on his side; No. 13 was obviously, undecided; Mortimer and Bellward were, of course, against him; Mrs. Malplaquet sat with her hands in her lap, her eyes cast down, giving no sign. "It's high time..." Mortimer began violently but Mrs. Malplaquet put up her hand and checked him. "Better hear Bellward!" she said softly.
"Confederate?" shouted Mortimer, "what the devil do you mean by that?" "Yes, confederate," Desmond repeated. "Max, Behrend, Mrs. Malplaquet, all of you, look at this wretched fellow" he pointed a finger of scorn at Bellward "trembling with fright at the role that has been thrust upon him, to force his way into our midst, to give his accomplice the tip to clear out before the police arrive."
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